


In Another Place

by Runeless



Series: I Know My True Name [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: AU, B-list villains suddenly are really dangerous threats, Chaotic Good, Doesn't mean Bats is a villain, Everyone should know their own true name, Gen, Joker is a hero, Killer Moth is gonna be the worst thing to ever happen to these people, Morality Flip, When the Rogues Gallery goes hero the second tier of Rogues goes top-tier, alignment flip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-04
Updated: 2013-11-04
Packaged: 2017-12-31 10:23:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1030579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Runeless/pseuds/Runeless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In another place, Gotham City is a war zone; but the soldiers are on different sides.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Another Place

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MercurialArchivist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercurialArchivist/gifts).



**In Another Place**

 

                You stumble, puking, into darkness. The hood, the cape, they don’t even matter because the _chemicals_ , they _burned_ you, they burned your _face_ …

                Aching hands wrench a red helmet off, to tumble into chemical-stricken water, the red cape last to drown.

                Your face. A harsh mimicry of a clown’s. You look like a Joker card from the trick decks you used to try to use on stage.

                You touch horrible red lips, green hair, ghastly white face. Your eyes burn with tears and acid both.

                Your mind cracks.

                What a… _bad day_ today has been.

                Forced to serve gangsters in the desperate hope of getting money for the baby in your wife’s belly.

                Ha.

                Finding out before the robbery even begins that your wife and child were dead.

                Ha ha.

                Freak accident, they said.

                That’s funny.

You’ve just been turned into a _freak_ by an _accident._

                Ha.

                Ha.

                Hahahahahahahahahahahaha…

                But then there is an explosion in the chemical plant, and while sometimes the littlest things can change fate, the explosion’s too big to count. It’s a BIG thing that changes fate. A man lands on you, rolls off, falls into the drink.

                On reflex, you put your hand in the water to save him, pull him alive out of poisonous chemicals.

                …Freak accident he landed on you, the one person around for miles.

                Your hand on him the only thing keeping him from drowning… that’s _not_ a freak accident.

                …Maybe there are no freak accidents. Or, more accurately, maybe there don’t have to be any _more_.

                And wouldn’t that be funny?

                Hahahahahahahahaha!

                (The mind breaks but no one ever said the break had to be _down_.)

You see her face as you pull him out, your woman, your wife, and your child- dead, but the mind is shattered and grief is washed away by madness. Some crazy can heal.

Hahahahahahahahaha!

She always said you had a nice laugh. As you pull the man alive from the waters you let out the biggest one yet.

**HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!**

                -

                You are not sane in _any possible way_ but you hope you can make crazy work. Hope’s a hell of a thing, bright and white and purple and green in this city of grays and blacks. You skip as you walk, because why not? The stars make your wife’s face. You blow her a kiss as you walk.

                (For you, dear.)

                You’ve got switchblades in your pockets, a crowbar in your hands, and a list of names in your head. The guys who survived that night, or weren’t there; the gang that brought you to the chemical plant that fateful night.

                There are no freak accidents. Responsibility must be taken.

                (You kill the man you dragged out of the drink, because he went home, beat his wife, went to sleep, and the next day tried to mug someone, and then tried to kill them when they stood their ground. You beat him to death, because every act he took after you saved him was _your_ responsibility. And responsibility must be taken.)

                You watch the gang, of course, because you want to make sure you only kill the ones who deserve it- the innocent and repentant get to walk away, because there are no freak accidents, and all the good they will ever do will be on your head because you didn’t kill them. Just as all the evil _won’t_ be, if you kill them.

Thus it is that one man unknowingly saves his own life with a tearful plea to his wife that you watch, saltwater streaming down his coal-black face as he holds his wife tight in his arms, dark on dark; he swears to do better and cuts all ties with the others, does his best to go straight. You reward him weeks later with a duffel bag about thousands stolen from the rest of the gang, and he is a man of his word, flees with wife in tow to a new city and a better life. There are no freak accidents, only choices, and responsibility must be taken… and when taken, rewarded. For goodness he is given goodness.

The rest are scum and you reward them as scum deserve, stabbings and stranglings and one notable incident of kicking a man into a neon sign that then fell down into a chemical pit which you subsequently set on fire. The sign had been for Hot Stuff, after all, and you giggled and laughed like a schoolboy when you did that.

                Then the Batman showed up and punched your lights out. Terrifying figure. _Fucked up_ to put it in your professional opinion, though you’re not a doctor.

                (You’re a Joker! You laughed when you chose the name, your own birth name stripped from you by chemicals and trauma. It was the laugh of finally knowing your own name.)

                The frightful figure of black and sorrows, so representative of this hell-born city, takes you to the place where you will experience your next great evolution- Arkham.

                -

                Arkham is an asylum, they say, but it offers no solace. You are tossed into a cell with a man named Crane. _Doctor_ Crane, he kindly informs you when you ask, and he is the skinniest man you’ve ever seen, which you tell him. He chuckles, not spooked by your face at all, telling you that he’s sane, but got tossed in here for political reasons; he opposed a fellow, some sinner named Strange who’s close to the mayor. Crane himself is a researcher in the field of fear, reasoning that no one should be conquered by it; he’s a terribly brave man, seemingly unafraid of anything, even when you deliberately try to spook him. You rather like him! He cries a lot less than the others do, adding their tears to this city of sorrow, especially the poor bastard in the cell across from yours- Julian Day, the Calendar Man, who played pranks every year on the holidays. Gave free puppies to a bunch of homes during the dog days, made a big Christmas tree in town square, gave free turkey dinners to people on Thanksgiving. Nice guy… you wonder why the orderlies beat him so badly.

                Crane, smart man, tells you why. This man called Strange… the things Crane describes, experiments and torture, the powerful preying on the helpless. This asylum might be called ARKHAM in the big capital letters but it belongs to Strange. And while it will take more research, you believe Crane; you believe the fierce intensity in his eyes and the way his hands grip tight, outrage. You know without ever being told that he was bullied as a child, grew up knowing fear intimate and turned that into pure personal strength, into insane courage; you know that he sees in Strange a bully, and this is a man who will _not_ tolerate bullies, who puts the fear in the fearmongers, men like Strange.

                (Strange’s name goes on the list. He needs a stabbing.)

                The days are strange in this strangest of places. You are taken to a psychologist, a thin slip of a girl budding into womanhood named Harleen Quinzel, a name that tickles some place deep inside you- something about clowns, and isn’t that appropriate? There are no freak accidents- but it’s clear that nothing has _ever_ tickled _her._ She is dour and sad-eyed and more dead than alive. You do your best to make her smile, tell her stories, hear hers in return. You turn the story around, and for once, it is the patient who hears the psychiatrist speak- and it is a second turn-around, too, for you are the first person to hear _her_ speak, you are certain. You see the way she looks at you and you encourage it because it brings joy to her.

                (Your wife watches from glass, approves. Smile, my beloved, and bring smiles. You remember an evening, in your arms, both of you telling the other to love again if the one died, because you were big-hearted in your love, kind and unselfish. And this city has had enough of weeping.)

                Harleen even finds her spine, demands to be _your_ doctor, and the others, uncaring, give you to her, sparing you so much pain. You see it written on Crane, the cruelties of men of science- his own supposed colleagues. He never mentions the scars and you admire the incredible _strength_ in this thin thin man, who has sworn never to bow again and upholds the vow.

In-between visits with the good doctor, you see them bring in new inmates. One is a green-dressed man who spouts questions with every step, a’riddling as he goes; the orderlies ignore him, except to give him an elbow when his riddling proves annoying.

The next is more interesting, a vast _animal_ , a great green-scaled beast, and he snarls like the savage he resembles, but you see his eyes- you see the vast _humanity_ in those eyes, the way he snarls loudest when he sees the mistreatment inflicted in this hell-hole, the way his spirit has grown to become more than he was even as his body mutates. Here is a man who is no freak accident, who has taken responsibility.

You shout encouragement to him.

“ Give ‘em hell, Croc!” you yell, naming him and getting a baton across the face for your efforts. The greenscale sees you speak and takes a sniff, marking chemical scents and clown smell.

The last they bring in is a goddess, for she is dressed all in nature, nature bruised by rough hateful hands but beautiful nonetheless. It’s Crane who shouts the encouragement this time.

“ Don’t let them break you,” he yells, and he _dodges_ the baton with incredible grace, and after you ask him how he did that he offers to train you in the martial art he calls “violent dancing”. You tango every night after that, beats marked in blood and pounding and a friendship born of mutual defiance. You defy by your very nature, white splashed on black in this hellhole city, the red smile; he defies by choice, the unbreakable shadow.

You tell him his name, one night.

“ You’re not a Crane,” you offer, after sparring, smiling as you realize that you have, for once, mostly come out ahead in a match. Crane’s told you that you’re teaching him as much about his fighting style as he’s teaching you, these nights.

“ No?” he says, used to the weird way your mind works. He’s more orderly, more like the city, but he’s accommodating to your chaos and that makes him a good friend.

“ Nope. You’re a crow. A Scarecrow.”

He laughs a surprised laugh of recognition then, a laugh that sparks a laugh of recognition of your own, for it is a laugh you know well- the laugh of someone finally finding their own name.

You don’t call him Crane after that, and though he never tells you, the insight born of madness tells you that _he_ doesn’t call himself Crane after that, either.

-

You decide to escape Arkham pretty soon after that. You _are_ technically a serial killer, and you are _definitely_ nuts- no technical about that!- but no one deserves this.

You realize it the night you see them kill the Calendar Man.

Wasn’t a point to it. They just walked in, and there’s Cash- Aaron Cash, who should be better, but is cruel, cruel- bringing down the batons. Calendar hadn’t done anything, but they bashed his brains in anyway, that poor gentle soul who just wanted to make holidays feel _special_ for other people, always wondering what they’d get. Used to hand out turkeys on Thanksgiving, free toys on Christmas, free puppies in the dog days. Harmless. Truly insane, but harmless.

You hear yelling up and down the hall. Everyone had liked Calendar. Even the floor grumbles, as Croc, in his special cell, slams the ceiling and tries to break out, become a killer. A Killer Croc… you like that.

(Cash’s name goes on the list, as do all the orderlies. They’ll get theirs, at _your_ hands, if you can, and you’ll help anybody else who goes hunting.)

You turn to Scarecrow when it’s all over, his fists curled in rage. Yours hang loose at your sides; your rage is all in your eyes.

“ I’m breaking out.”

He nods his head, one sharp, stiff movement.

“ I’m in.”

It’s a start.

-

                Step one’s easy and you do it on impulse. You reach through the bars at a passing guard, grab his shirt, and slam his head into the bars. He falls, and Scarecrow’s long thin fingers pull the keys off his belt, put key to lock. Third time’s a charm, and you are free.

                Scarecrow takes half and you take half and you run up and down the cells, unlocking doors. On one pass you free the riddling man, who rushes out to grab a baton; others, a storm of them, exit. Scarecrow, down the hall, lets the _real_ prize out; three twists on a huge door and a key lets out the vast animal man.

                “ Killer Croc!” you bellow. “ How ya been, buddy?”

                He sniffs, remembers you, smiles. “ Killer Croc?” he growls, laughing that famililar laugh. Huh. Two names. You should get a job naming babies at hospitals. Do better than half the idiots in Gotham these days, naming kids Khaleesi and shit.

Guards find you soon enough, but regret it, because Killer Croc, Scarecrow, yourself, and about a dozen angry inmates find them at the same time, and your gang of freaks come out ahead. One guard had a switchblade, another had a knife; those are yours. Scarecrow and the riddler both grab metal baseball bats; the other grip batons of the electrical and the hitty variety. Security gates slam down; Croc slams through. You follow, rescuing more and more from this medical horror house as you go.

The riddling man makes you take a detour, asking you “What’s stronger than mother nature? Not these guards,” and the answer pleases you enough that you corral the others into following the question mark’s lead. You find a greenhouse door, guarded by steel, divinity trapped inside, red-headed and ivy-skinned. She looks at all of you pitifully through the glass, a fantastic thing brought low by mundane cruelness.

“ Riddle me this!” the man, who has somehow found a hat in this chaos, says as he steps forward gaily. “ Can Killer Croc tear this door off its hinges?”

Killer Croc laughs. “ Answer: Damn straight he can.”

He’s a man of his word. Croc rips the steel door off in one go, great muscles bulging, and the goddess steps out, looks at your faces, gives a single dignified nod to her rescuers.

                Then nature itself rises up to war at your side. Vines and stinging thorns and dizzying pollen rip out of the walls, plant madness aiding animal insanity as you and the lunatics start to run the asylum, not to control it but to escape. Scarecrow is black against white walls winging batons into throats and breaking in skulls with a steel rod from Ivy’s cage replacing his baseball bat, Croc a splash of deepest green tearing into men with claws and teeth like a sawblade on legs, Ivy red and green as Christmas and presents in her hands, the present of death for vile souls and tearing vines to free the caged ones. You are in the lead at their head at their heart, white on white on purple on green, knives singing scarlet in your hands as you slice and dice and lead this mad charge. This is chaos’ last stand and it intends to break down this orderly place, this place of order where the order is to hurt and harm; your laughs echo off the walls as beautiful blasphemies.

                It all goes well until you get to the front gate.

                The guards all at the doors, with guns and firepower enough to punch through even Croc’s hide. This is the last show and you prepare to wing your one knife into Cash’s throat, see if you can’t cross one more name off the list before you die. The others know this is their last moment and prepare to die well.

                But then…

Hope. Hope in the form of little Harleen Quinzel, running up behind the guards with her arms full of stolen grenades, and her mouth full of gleaming pins.

                She drops them all, scattering death into the guard’s ranks, and the ensuing blast blows her off her feet. Blows most of the guards to bits, too, though Cash survives- but he’s staggered, and that’s time enough for Croc to run over and rip the bastard’s arm off with his fucking teeth, spitting the hand out to fly in a gory arc.

                You see no more of the short battle before the Asylum’s gates, though, because you are chasing after a little blonde sprite of a woman, finding her with labcoat stained with blood and ash- white on black on red. It’s a good color for her.

You pick her up, to take her with you, reward for good acts.

(There are no freak accidents. Responsibility must be taken- and when taken, rewarded.)

                And once you have her, Croc tears the gates down, proving his worth thrice in one night, and you are all free.

                -

                You scatter after that, but your little group follows Croc- who apparently knows what he’s doing more than any of you do- into the sewers, carrying your unconscious savior among yourselves. Scarecrow packs her most of the way, because for as skinny as he is, he is stronger than any of you but Croc himself. It fits; it’s a paradox, and paradox is much loved by madness.

                You find a little place Croc had prepared, a hideaway with beds and a little bit of food. Croc rests, Scarecrow rests, the riddling man rests; and you take Harleen to her bed, to lay her down gently.

                Her hair falls into two separate groups when you lay her down, sweat and soot clinging together, making a jester’s hat of her hair, to go with her patchwork clothes.

                Patchwork jester… a harlequin.

                (You remember now! Harleen Quinnzel. Harley Quinn.)

                She stirs awake, looks at your face. “ Did we…” she coughs. “ Make it? Heard you were escaping, ran to help…”

                “ We did,” you reassure her, running a gloved hand over her forehead. “ Because of you, Harley Quinn.”

                Familiar laughs echo in the sewers, joined soon by yours.

**Author's Note:**

> Just a cool idea I came up with! Might write more, might not. Thinking of calling this the Nameverse.


End file.
